Darkroom Saga Omnibus 1

by Poppet

  Resting my chin to my chest, stress induced exhaustion swindles my lucidity while I pray, hoping there is a god who can miraculously airlift me out of hell.

  ~ Chapter 3 ~

  The people of Israel called the food manna.

  It was like a small white seed.

  ~Exodus 16:31

  Preacher John:

  Hunting through the mall, I am back in the clothes of the casual saint, the one who blends and appeals to those with a rebellious streak. Our leader went into bars to find sinners in their natural habitat, and I am no stranger to his approach.

  Scoping the clusters of offspring from the loins of the inferior, I inspect and disregard. One stands apart, a loner, a reject. Nope, not that one; she smells of sin.

  How like Sodom and Gomorrah this place is! Men lie with men, women lie with women and perform all manner of reprehensible acts, impersonating men with their strap-on cocks.

  Men lie with their children, and children lie with children. Step-brothers lie with their new sisters and fathers lie with their daughters-in-law. They fornicate shamelessly in their orgies with hedonism, and sinners are begat from sinners.

  My god is a jealous god, and visits the iniquity of the fathers on the children to the third and fourth generation of those who hate him. Yet he shows steadfast love to thousands of them who love him and keep his commandments. So it says in Exodus 29, in Deuteronomy 5.

  Here is the place where they worship mammon and covetousness begins. So young! If I can only change their hate of all that is holy, to love! Alas, I cannot rescue them all. That is not the role God has chosen for me. He has chosen 72 for me to save.

  To do that I need a virgin or three.

  The sins of the fathers make finding one difficult, even at the mall, even among the teens who hang here. This despicable ritual is an oasis for sinners and greed. I'll make them humble. It is my gift to bestow with Alpha's grace. They become women so young now, sticking tampons inside them, defiling the entrance to the temple with make-believe penises sent to soak up fertile blood.

  They were always declared ready for marriage the moment their bodies showed sexual maturity with breasts and blood. God would choose the pre-teens now. A teen is already jaded, exposed to pornography and drugs, too eager to experiment because of the filth available to them online.

  Disgusting. Sharing hallowed pictures of themselves with strangers, desperate for the approval of a man for their wicked wombs and the tender lips hiding vanity perfect for severing. Reveling in publicized photos of them partaking in inebriation, flaunting sin without shame, wearing conquest like a badge of honor.

  There are some still pure. I can smell it on them: the fresh untouched flesh of the hymen. Many of them speak to me, even though I have tied my hair back in an attempt at austerity, striving to be unapproachable. They cannot help themselves. Yet if I stood here with my bible they would reject me as if I were a homeless convict fresh out on parole. Hypocrisy reveals the truth in the heart.

  The light of my soul cannot be snuffed under a bushel, which is why I am enticing. It shines forth like a burning bush at midnight and they are drawn to it like gnats. Like the thousands to the message of salvation. Until the day. . .

  Tremors flit through my muscles, the anxiety coming upon me with ferocity. I cannot think of the murder of our Lord without emotion. Alpha has assigned me a task. I cannot falter.

  Fuck, I remember the days when I'd finger the bitches, their musk coating my digits with the irresistible scent of sex, only to be left with a severe case of debilitating blue balls because they wouldn't put out. It's almost laughable at how much my perspective has changed with maturity and God's intervention. I was twelve and randy once myself.

  “Hey mister, got a few bucks I can borrow? Someone stole my purse in the arcade and I need to get home before my mom freaks out.”

  We lock gazes. I’m not staring as much as I am inhaling the perfume of innocence.

  She smells pure. She has yet to lay down with a man, at least not in that way. I’d bet my bible she has given a hand job, possibly experimented with masturbation and administering a BJ, maybe even received a cunning lick of her own, but the most important piece of a female’s sanctity is still intact.

  Is your mother such a sinner that she would not do her duty and come to collect you when you call on her? Why do you approach a stranger for charity when it is meant to begin inside your home? In that case you shall not be missed or mourned. I shall deliver you from evil, spawn of satan.

  I shall deliver you.

  This one is dressed like a skater chick, all baby-fat plump breasts and lean legs in skinny jeans, ending with Chuck Taylor's. Avril Levine is clearly her idol.

  God does not permit competition girl, even if the singer has a good Jewish name. The Levites were his chosen priests.

  Perhaps this is a sign?

  Anger burgeons, deciding for me that she and her lurking friend are the ones. So she's the bold one willing to ask a man for help while the coward haunts the glass wall to Vanity's wares. We're just opposite Victoria's Secret and it shames me to find the female form tempting in such titillating strips of satin. This young child is surrounded by Satanic allure, urging the young to prostitute their flesh, to display it so that married men will sin by lusting after nubile cleavage so boldly exposed. Do they not read Revelation and know this is an abomination?

  “I don’t know if I have enough cash for cab fare, I use my card mostly,” I say, using the tone of a predator coaxing a wild animal closer. “But if you are going my way, I can give you a ride.”

  A long deep ride to purge you of your filthy vices.

  “Um - I don’t know if I should.”

  She visibly relaxes when I chuckle. “Mom told you not to take a lift with a stranger, huh? Well, name’s John, and I’m a preacher man. Ya'll can call me Preacher John, or Father if you prefer.”

  “How do I know ya'll's a preacher? You don’t look like one,” she says, doubt plain.

  Thomasina shall be her christened name.

  I show her the worn leather-bound new testament from my back pocket, at the same time lifting out of my shirt the silver cross that hangs on a chain around my neck, so she can see it.

  With a frisson of pride I lift the sleeve of my t-shirt, showing her the Omega tattoo of my liege. “Would anyone else have this stuff in the mall?”

  “I guess not,” she shrugs, unimpressed.

  It will be easier if she is relaxed, her guard torn down like the walls of Jericho. “You want a coke or something?” I tempt, being a friend in her hour of need.

  “Sure,” she says. “Uh, I have a friend, we came together.”

  You came together? The dutch rudder isn't for guys any longer, huh? So you're a virgin slut craving sins of the flesh. God knows how to purge you of that affliction.

  “I was grabbing a bite before driving home, c'mon and I'll get ya'll a soda before we duck,” I say, nudging my head toward the food court.

  Righteous anger simmers and I know I have chosen the right vessels to receive our holy blessings.

  Ordering the girls sodas while they incessantly whisper with their heads close, mirror images at the table they've claimed, I subtly drop the contents of the vial into their cardboard cups, resealing them with plastic lids. I'll hold on to the straws until we are in the parking lot.

  “C'mon ladies, none of us is gettin' any younger,” I urge, striding ahead, forcing them to follow me out.

  For all intents and purposes we are together, but according to any surveillance cameras we appear to exit separately.

  I've been doing this for too many years to be careless.

  Unlocking the door for the virgins, I leave their sodas on the dash, indicating they should hop to it and get on in. Eyes hooded, now shielded behind my shades, I watch with a cocktail of lust and regret when the shirt rides up as the bold blond slides into the passenger seat. My cock twitches, the familiar tingle of the lord's blessings tightening the sac.

 
That's why God needs you. A red bra is for a whore, not a virgin. Your eagerness to discard chastity is evident.

  It’s a shame such a promising life must be sacrificed. Compared to the sacrifice of his only son, God’s insistence on virginity seems merciful. It is fair. It is a commandment conceived in love's eternal grace.

  After all he chose to create Eve to serve Adam. Women are our property, never our equals. I'm just claiming these two for his worship before Satan can corrupt them further.

  Living in awe of his perfection I admire the audacious creature he’s provided for me, as he provided the lamb in the thicket so Abram did not have to sacrifice Isaac.

  Getting in my truck, adjusting to get comfortable behind the wheel, her sweetness presses close in the confines; it stirs my blood when her thigh lines mine with sensual heat.

  She is tempting me, already. Dirty angel.

  Dirty, dirty, dirty, angel.

  What Victor would have done to you. I am a mild panacea of mercy compared to my brother in God. But he's gone, and I am here now to save you in his stead.

  Starting the truck and shunting it into first gear, I smile at my companions, asking, “Ya'll know my name, but what are ya'lls?”

  “Ruth,” she jabs a thumb in her friend's direction. “And I'm Deborah.”

  If I needed a sign that God chose them and presented them to me, I just got it.

  “Why do you wear your hair long?” she asks curiously.

  Inquisitive, Ruth leans forward to add, “I heard it's rebellion. Like all them metal bands like on your t-shirt. Pa says it ain't Christian to wear your hair long like.”

  “Lust will damn you girls, including lust for material objects. They are false idols and ya'll should keep yourselves from sin. If you were a true Christian child you'd not be in the mall.”

  Ruth rolls her eyes at me, sitting back, taking a long pull on her soda.

  Good, that suck shows a lot of promise for her atonement at the altar. I cannot hide my cheer, shifting into second, leaving my hand on the gearstick, explaining, “It's not evil, Ruth. It's evil to cut it, donchaknow. The good book says; He is bound by the vow for the full time that he is dedicated to the lord, and he will let his hair grow ... his hair is a sign of dedication to God.” Numbers 6: 6

  Driving out the exit, hitting Main, I take an invigorating sip from my Dr Pepper, waiting for the effect of the roofies to hit them, saying, “So ladies, whereabouts do I go ta drop ya'll?”

  Deborah, the queen of Israel, droops her head on my shoulder, slurring, “Church Avenue...”

  “Praise the lord,” I mumble, his holiness surrounding me with the signs of his hand in my life.

  I drive their way until my sacrifices slump in catatonic surrender, then drive swiftly back toward the converted asylum. Our father knows that it is good, and I will show my warrior-prophet how to take the innocent so the devils cannot have their souls.

  •

  Preacher John:

  I am late for the evening broadcast, securing the girls in the holding cell, zip-ties tethering them until we can stuff the little pigs with God's staff and blessings, reaping them for his ineffable glory.

  Tapping the vintage microphone, testing it, I maneuver on the seat, getting cozy for the daily sermon.

  “Pleghem... gahack...” I clear my throat, touching the sigil for my father and brothers carved into the border of the table.

  “Ya'll must wonder why you are here, why our blessed Lord has chosen you out of all the sinners on this planet. And doncha go takin' offense to being called a sinner, you all are, every last one of you, until the lord absolves you through penance and punishment.”

  Tracing the Alpha and Omega, I bow my head and press my tongue to it, taking the manna from heaven, the white tablets God cast down into the desert, in Sin. The Sin/ai desert certainly had an apt name for those who challenged the authority of the lord.

  “A loving god disciplines his children,” I mumble around the sweet ambrosia as it burns through the thin lining of my cheek, sizzling on my tongue, bleeding into my mucous. “But now we have seventy-two of you. God is pleased! He sees that it is good. Amen!”

  Slamming my fist down, I stand, the fire in my belly becoming a furnace. “Ya'll will recall that God gave his son to us. He murdered our savior for your redemption! I was there, I was his best friend, we grew up together, when God decided the time was nigh. I planted three bullets in his stomach while Peter repeated the discipline and purification by firing at close range in case I missed. He did not know they were blanks in his gun. When God smites he does it with silence and stealth. He comes like a thief in the night. Let me remind you of Matthew verse 6...” My voice cracks at the anguish, a sob torn from my raw throat, the manna sending me into the frenzy of adoration. I loved him like a brother.

  Clearing my throat again, I lean hard on the pulpit, the fire of the Holy Spirit descending on me, raising my voice to heaven, “When you give something to a needy person, do not make a big show of it, as the hypocrites do in the houses of worship and on the streets.... No my children, that is why you are in here where it is quiet and private. God saw that you were hungry and he has chosen to alleviate your suffering at the hands of Satan. Matthew reminds you that Your Father who sees what you do in private will reward you. And you have been given the greatest reward of all. You are one of the elite seventy-two.”

  Flipping through the beautiful grimoire of the holy, I find the passage, screeching the revelation to my devout chosen. “Luke is the one who reveals this glory to us, for he says unto you in Luke 10 that the Lord chose another seventy-two disciples. He sent them out two by two as Noah did with the animals on the ark, to go out to every town where he was to go. Yes my children, you have been chosen. Our Almighty Lord has seen it fit to once again choose seventy-two!” Rapture overcomes me and I fall into speaking in tongues, cursing the fallen and foul, damning the sinners... and the sinner in me.

  •

  19: Andrew:

  Sitting with my back against the wall, I listen to the ravings of the certifiably mad. He's so far fucked in the head there ain't no intervention other than a bullet to the brain that will save that maniac.

  The speakers crackle with reverb possession, hissing satanically, “I was chosen as one of the twelve. Father chose me to stand with Victor, I wear his mark, and that is why I mark you on your right arms. The good Lord brands his tribe. You are his flock and he will not lose you to the Hittites and their evil worship! They let females lead them in worship, they allow the smelly cunts to lead them in prayer, to counsel their wise men and leaders! This is blasphemy to our Lord, and he sees everything we do....”

  The fanatic's voice drops conspiratorially, “Everything! He sees me when I bless you, he watches when I discipline you, he demands it. Hebrews 12:6, the Lord disciplines those he loves. And that is you brothers and sisters! He loves you and for this holy pleasure you must suffer his wrath when you step toward temptation. Hallelujah! Glory be thy hallowed name!” But when he speaks again, a plan begins to form in my darkness. In this septic hellhole I know what we need to do. What I need to do. The tinny speaker hisses, “Isaiah 49 verse 16: Behold, I have graven thee in my hands: thy walls are always before my eyes. What that means children is that your God, MY God, he has your names on his palms! You wear his mark and he wears yours! Quid pro quo you smutty bastards! He took the swine out of the pigsty and raised you up to the most high! He has cleansed you... and he continues to!”

  Seventy-two of us. If he wants to be god, judge, and jury, I suggest we brand him the way he branded us. Seventy-two brands so that he can 'wear our mark graven in his skin' should manage to kill the fucker. Laughing to myself, I yell to the ceiling and the hidden surveillance, “Hallelujah preacher man! And God saw that it was good!”

  ~ Chapter 4 ~

  I create both light and darkness;

  I bring both blessing and disaster.

  ~ Isaiah 45: 7

  72: Julie

  A tender h
and wakes me from slumber, caressing the hair off my face while a soft voice purrs in masculine perfection, “Wake up precious.”

  The light is so bright when I open my eyes that it's instinct to close them again, squeezing them tight against the glare.

  “Julie, gaze upon me girl.”

  The memories come smashing in, demolishing my serenity in a tidal chill. Flinching, shrinking into the mattress, my eyes are wide now, staring up into the face of the man looming over me.

  Oh hell.

  The hand is too close, touching me with the very fist that smashed my face in for his perverse pleasure. He has domination issues, that much is crystal fucking clear. Long brown hair curtains us inside false intimacy, the ends soft and sexy, like the man himself. How deceptive are appearances. He looks harmless, congenial, trustworthy. Sex appeal oozes out of every nuance and gesture, but it's all a con to catch his prey.

  “It's time for you and me to have a little one on one time,” he says, smiling with an innocence that is incongruous and bizarre.

  “Oh, ah huh,” I mumble, wishing I could have a drink, and brush my teeth.

  Offering me his hand, sitting back, his warmth the only thing thawing my skin where he presses against my thigh, benevolent brown eyes stare into mine. Is he offering me the hand of friendship? Is he just some lonely freak who has to kidnap ladies for company?

  He's still dressed the way he was when he bought me a drink. How thick am I that I didn't automatically assume it was spiked? Wide shoulders fill a death metal t-shirt and it clings in all the places a lady likes on a man. He works out, probably in midnight cage fights to satisfy his penchant for violence.

  I hate that he looks vulnerable. His facade is utterly flawless, and it coaxes trust right out of me. He appeals to my nurturing instincts while conflicting with the attraction he commands. Satan likes them pretty, huh?

  But then he was too, wasn't he? Angels are glorious creatures, what a shame that ten percent of them have fallen and up to no good. Happily humping women if I recall correctly. They found the daughters of men attractive and screwed us to create the Anakim race: the first giants to inhabit Earth, the last being Goliath. They were the Rephaim, all of their incarnations renowned for their strength and stature.